


Under the Ice

by tainry



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Astrotrain being a complete aft, Implied/potential harm to unborn robot baby and carrier, M/M, Mpreg, Oral Sex, Public Sex, Sticky, Warning for Optimus baby-talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 15:48:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5831482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tainry/pseuds/tainry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prowl is injured while carrying and needs Magical Healing Sex to deliver safely! As one does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Ice

**Author's Note:**

> A kinkmeme fill! My first mpreg! My first sticky, too, iirc? XD

It had seemed like a great plan at the time. (How often had he thought that? He tried not to calculate it, but there it was, already in his processor. 528 times. Great.) The energy conference in Reykjavík was simply too sweet an opportunity to pass up. Nab the Autobots’ primary tactician: Put them at a disadvantage on the battlefield right there. Bonus number one: Push the tactician’s bondmate into a frothing rage thereby provoking stupidity. Bonus number two: The tactician was carrying, and old tales said that the fluid inside a carrier’s assembly tank was stunningly rich in energy and delicious ambrosia beyond compare. Astrotrain wanted him some of that, you bet. 

What Astrotrain hadn’t counted on was Starscream and ALL the other Seekers hounding him back to the Nemesis like some kind of shrieking spirits of vengeance. Starscream by himself was easy enough to manipulate. He was constrained by the requirements of maintaining his position as SIC, as well as his own ego and ambition. However, for some reason Thundercracker and Skywarp were fully backing him on this, and the Coneheads had gotten into the act. Slaggers. 

He’d been just about to punch a neat little hole in the tactician’s distended belly when the Autobots had shown up with their unexpected air support. Not that it had done them much good down in the cavern under the Eiríksjökull glacier where Astrotrain had dragged his stasis-cuffed prey. Still, those blasted null-rays stung. 

Back at the Nemesis, Megatron had slammed everyone around some for interrupting the peace and quiet of his happy plotting time, but that was fine since it got the murderously scowling Seekers off Astrotrain’s aft. 

“I don’t give half a bolt for whether the tactician is deactivated,” Starscream growled in an undertone as they were dismissed from the august presence of their mighty leader.”But if he mis-carries and the bitlet dies? You’re a dead mech.” 

Yeah, yeah, Astrotrain thought but didn’t quite dare say aloud. Whatever. Screamer would get over it in a few quartexes. And maybe until then Astrotrain would do a nice little survey of the local asteroid belt. He could take pot-shots at Cosmos while he was out there. Bonus!

]]]]][[[[[

The image was burned into his memory core. Prowl face-down in the dirty snow covering the floor of the cave, arms double-cuffed cruelly high behind his back, optics dark. He’d been cuffed at the ankles, too. Astrotrain hadn’t been taking any chances. 

And yet, at some point Prowl had been able to get off a burst transmission, enabling Chip Chase and Jazz to triangulate his position. From the moment they’d realized Prowl was missing from the convention center, only the constant feel of _alive…alive…alive_ through their sparkbond had kept Jazz from tearing apart anything and everything that stood between himself and Prowl. 

“Cold,” Prowl whispered, almost inaudible beneath the din of Sideswipe, Brawn, and Trailbreaker jackhammering and digging. The fight had loosened layers of hexagonal granite crystals, collapsing the ceiling in a huge swathe, effectively sealing them inside the lava tube. “Cold.” The stasis cuffs hadn’t even let him shiver to generate heat to keep vital systems and the assembly tank warm. 

//We’ve gotcha, sweetspark,// Jazz sent, pressing himself closer along Prowl’s front. Red Alert and Smokescreen were cuddling him from behind, revving their engines high. The snow around them was melting, but Prowl’s core temperature had dropped dangerously low. //We’ll get ya warmed up in two shakes, just hang in there.// Jazz revved his engine as well, and occupied himself with devising brave punishments for Astrotrain while Ratchet completed his scans. 

“How long have the contractions been going on, Prowl?”

Jazz gritted his denta. That wasn’t a question he wanted to hear Ratchet asking. 

“Not.”

“Yes you are. How long have the contractions been going on, Prowl? I need to know.”

Prowl seemed to struggle with this for a moment, his head tossing restlessly against Red and Smokescreen’s shoulders. “Thrrrrree.” 

“Three hours?” Ratchet moved his hands over Prowl’s abdominal plating. Jazz moved his own body rather unwillingly to one side. Smokescreen made no objection to being thus squashed.

“Yes.”

//He should have said something the moment we got the cuffs off him,// Ratchet private-commed Jazz. //He’s masking.//

//Fragging stoic mech,// Jazz muttered.

//No, Prowl wouldn’t have been stupid about this. The fact that he can’t help concealing that he’s well into delivery mode means his cognitive functions have been partially or completely firewalled from his autonomics. It’s a baseline survival mode.// 

//You’re not reassuring me, here, doc.//

//I’m not trying to. Bad enough he’s not due for another month, but in this cold he’s not producing any lubricant at all. There are already microfractures in his plating and in the substructures all through his lower torso.// The plates of assembly tank and structural supports that would normally slide over one another were sticking and grinding. Prowl was already damaged from Astrotrain’s clumsy handling. One shoulder dislocated; probably from being dropped as the rescue party had come galloping in, guns blazing. Dented helm; probably from the sucker punch Astrotrain had initially subdued him with. A few other dings and dents, nothing worrisome on their own, but cumulatively they hadn’t helped. 

Worst case was Prowl’s body would literally tear itself apart to free the bitlet. 

//So? Don’t you carry about ten gallons of spare lube in your subspace?//

Ratchet sighed. Then frowned and pressed his hands to strategic places on Prowl’s abdomen as another contraction rippled across his plating. Prowl had to be in considerable pain, dry as he was, but the tactician made no sound. The way his systems were all jury-wired around his battle computer, maybe he _couldn’t_. That wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

//I do, but that particular pocket got hit earlier.// Ratchet had been shielding Prowl with his body, behind Jazz, who had apparently been determined to put a record number of holes in any nearby Decepticon. //The, uh, normal methods might work, though; especially if we can get him warmed up.//

//Normal…? Oh. Ah. Gotcha.//

Jazz slipped a hand down between himself and Prowl as Ratchet used medical overrides to open Prowl’s interface hatch. That would need to be retracted anyway for delivery. Jazz helped the medic spread Prowl’s legs. Undignified and awkward, with so many other mechs right there. Sides, Hoist and TB were busy, and Red and Smokey were needed to provide warmth, but Blue, Mirage, Hound, Gears, Tracks, Sunstreaker and Powerglide were trapped as well. Everyone was trying not to watch, but they were all so worried for Prowl and the bitlet it was hard not to want to know what was happening.

//Prowl?// Jazz sent, kissing his bondmate gently. //Sweetspark, we gotta hot you up, okay? Can’t go at this without loosening the joints.//

//’Nderstood.// Even Prowl’s transmission was oddly hollow. He was in there, but the connection between mind and body was nearly severed. Jazz hoped physical stimulation alone would be enough. 

He fanned his fingers over Prowl’s interface array. Primus, so cold and unresponsive! Prowl had never felt like this under his hands. Prowl’s spike was inert and fully retracted, though that was normal enough during delivery. He stroked the rim of the valve gently. Prowl’s hips twitched. Feeling like a brute, Jazz pushed a fingertip inside. 

A sound came from Prowl’s vocalizer. Not a scream, not a moan. A low, anguished cry, wordless, helpless; a mindless, primitive expression of rending pain. Jazz jerked his hand away but the cry went on and on. That Jazz had been the one to wring such a sound out of his beloved nearly broke his spark. 

“Oh, Primus, can’t you…?” Sideswipe bit off the sentence before he could finish it. All digging and motion had stopped as Prowl’s cry echoed through the cavern. Mechs stood rooted, their armor standing out from their bodies, optics shuttered tight. Tracks looked like he was going to purge. 

“All right, delivery protocols make a bot hypersensitive,” Ratchet snarled, pitching glares liberally about. //Jazz. Jazz, you need to figure something out or get out of the way. Prowl had specific instructions in case…in case something like this happened.// he gripped Jazz’s shoulder. 

“I’m sure he did,” Jazz growled. And he could guess what those instructions entailed. By his oath, Ratchet would be compelled to save the bitlet, even if he had to disassemble Prowl to do it. 

Another contraction rippled visibly across Prowl’s body, plates trying to move, scraping raw edges with a grinding sound that set every mech’s denta on edge. As the spasm eased, Jazz slipped his hand down again, rubbing the valve rim and the area around it. Every exposed surface was dumping heat into the sub-zero air faster than they could radiate it into him. They weren’t far enough underground for the temperature to even out, and night was falling fast outside, according to his chronometer. Jazz rubbed harder, hoping a little friction might get things started. 

There…Prowl’s valve rim felt a little more like living metal. Jazz ventured a single fingertip, barely brushing the sensory nodes just inside. Prowl’s hips jerked away like he’d been hit with a cattle prod, his vocalizer blaring incoherent static. Jazz hugged him hard, optical fluid freezing on his own face plates. Primus slag it! He heard Ratchet light his cutting torch. 

“Jazz…”

“No!” Jazz hissed. Abandoning any pretense at dignity, he flattened himself in the snow, pressing his face to Prowl’s interface array, glossa lapping, every vent directing the hottest air he could manage onto that narrow area. //Prowl…stay with me…stay with me… come on, honey-sweet, stay with me…// He licked and sucked on the valve rim, running his glossa all around it, encouraged when Prowl at last made a sound that wasn’t agonal. //That’s it, babe, come on… gimme that sweet Praxian valve…// He fastened his mouth around the rim, revving his engine and willing his own circulation to bring heat to hands and face and glossa. Hoping hard, he flickered the tip of his glossa just inside the valve.

Prowl shifted under his hands. Jazz delved a little deeper, licking slowly in circles. The metal against his face felt a little warmer. 

“I know this is awkward, fellas,” Ratchet said, shutting off his torch, “but everyone not actively digging, come gather close; it’s only getting colder in here.”

Jazz felt the warmth of bots surrounding him, even a few hands resting on his back or helm in support. Smokey and Red lifted Prowl slightly, to give him better access. Jazz licked and sucked noisily, greedily, as the first sheen of moisture gathered on the inner surfaces of Prowl’s valve. He’d catch the bitlet with his mouth if he had to; come Pit or acid rain, nothing was going to get him out from between Prowl’s legs now.

//Yeah, sweetspark, that’s it…there’s my juicy Prowler…// He sank his glossa in as far as it would go, reaching for every sensory plexus, swirling the lubricant around, shutting down his own cooling systems as his engine temp headed for the red. 

“Jazz,” Prowl mumbled. “Good grief…”

Smokescreen let out a short bark of laughter, and rested his forehelm against Prowl’s. He’d been watching Prowl’s chevron intently; partly to keep his optics off the disturbingly arousing sight of Jazz lapping at his bondmate’s valve; partly because Prowl’s coloration wouldn’t give much warning. Only the crimson chevron and a few other details bore bright color to indicate a living mech. As long as that red stayed red, didn’t fade to gray… Smokey caught the corner of a look from Red Alert. Red had been doing the same thing. They bumped shoulders in mutual happy reassurance. 

//Mmm mmm juicy Prowler, you taste so good,// Jazz persisted, licking around and around, clutching Prowl’s hips, thrusting his glossa deep. //Think those juicy juicy thoughts, sweetspark!// 

“Hhhh…hhaahhnnn!” Prowl shuddered hard, his engine turning over at last. 

“That’s it!” Ratchet said, grinning. //Keep that up, Jazz, his autonomic and voluntary systems are synching up again! Fluid circulation has started.// “The rest of you, try to keep your fans off, let your engines rev hot. Bitlet’s on his way!”

“Wait a moment,” Red interjected suddenly. “Quiet!” The engine revving subsided as Red cocked his head, listening. The slippery little sounds of Jazz’s glossa seemed loud in the echoing dimness. 

Hound retuned his sensor suite, straining to catch whatever it was Red was hearing. A faint tap-tap-tapping sounded through the stone.

“That’s Inferno,” Red said, fortuitously before Sunstreaker blew an impatient gasket. “Morse code, silly mech. Relaying that Beachcomber says they’re almost through from their side!” Engine revving redoubled as the bots cheered, heat blossoming around them. Jazz kissed the little space between Prowl’s valve and spike housing, then went right back to work, humming loud to send the vibrations deep. 

“Next contraction,” Ratchet said, hands spread across the top of Prowl’s abdomen. “Ah, Primus, that’s better!” Plates shifted, warm and loose, making room, opening the passage. The bitlet in the tank would stay in delivery stasis until the process was complete, but even the tiny sparkbeat seemed stronger now to Ratchet’s sensors. 

Prowl arched his back, mouth open wide. He had regained control enough to silence pleasured moans. The sensations of labor mingling with a rapidly approaching overload were incredibly strange. //Ratchet?// he private-commed.

//You’re doing great, Prowl,// Ratchet responded instantly, more glad than he could say to receive the tactician’s calm query. //I admit I haven’t seen this come up before, but I’d say overloading will do more good than harm. Probably speed things up some, all right?//

//Understood.// Prowl reached up, twining his hands with Red and Smokey’s. With a titanic shudder, charge rolling across his frame, he released, fluid gushing out over Jazz’s glossa, into his mouth, valve reconfiguring even amid overload, alloy petals spiraling outward. 

“Or speed things up a lot,” Ratchet said, optics rather wide. “There go the inner seals…Jazz, get ready to…whoop! Nice reflexes!”

]]]]][[[[[

Chip scrubbed at his face as the rescued Autobots at last emerged into the moonlight and the headlight glare from their fellow mechs. Hoist was carrying Prowl, who lay limp in the big green mech’s arms, but met Chip’s desperate gaze with bright optics. Jazz climbed out fiercely clutching a tiny bundle, with a look that promised twelve kinds of mayhem to anyone who got in his way. 

“You okay, there, Chip?” Prime knelt, putting his head about level with where Chip waited at the top of Skyfire’s boarding ramp. Chip wiped hastily at his face again with his mittened hands. Tears were freezing on his eyelashes. He’d felt sick ever since Prowl had gone missing. 

“I’m fine,” he managed past the lump in his throat. “I’m so sorry. I never should have asked him to come with us.” 

“Prowl chose to come,” Prime said. “None of us thought any of the Decepticons would go after him particularly.” Considering the reports Prime had gotten from Inferno and Grapple, the Decepticons as a whole _hadn’t_. Astrotrain clearly had a short in his CPU. 

Chip nodded, but the sheer depth of the tragedy so narrowly averted would weigh on him for a long time to come. He scooted his chair back out of the way as the Autobots cleared the rocky slope leading up from the cavern and began boarding Skyfire.

Jazz paused. He was tempted to pass the human without a word, but Chip looked ghastly. Instead, Jazz knelt, turning his shoulders a bit so Chip could see the wee bitlet’s face, soundly recharging. “I don’t blame ya,” Jazz said quietly. “Not your fault, hear me? Don’t let them Cons or anybody else try to make like it was, okay?”

“O-okay.”

//Thank you, Jazz,// Prime private-commed.

//Meant it, Boss. Wasn’t his fault.// He stood and moved on into Skyfire’s hold, settling beside Hoist and Prowl, pressing a kiss to their bitlet’s tiny forehelm.

]]]]][[[[[

“Who’s en voozen doozen woozen den? Hm? Hmm?” Optimus Prime cooed softly. Jazz and Prowl were both recharging in the next room. “Oozen voozen ooo!” The bitlet warbled and beeped happily, cuddled up to his broad, warm chest. “Voozen oozen dooo, yes ens is…”

Prime was never certain later what small anomaly alerted him. Whatever it was, it had probably been deliberate. He suddenly became aware of red optics glowing behind the air vent grate above him. Prime and infiltrator stared at one another in silence. Prime’s look conveyed without any need for words that if Ravage attempted the slightest harm to the bitlet – even so much as a backhanded gift of the uninvited fairy sort – Prime would crush Ravage’s cranial unit in his bare hands. But that same look also said that Prime suspected Ravage wasn’t there to cause trouble, and Ravage’s return look conveyed acceptance of both sides of that communication. 

//Bitlet status?//

“Healthy,” Optimus replied, optics smiling.

//Tactician status?//

Prime knew this was in itself a strategic query. This whole situation could have escalated the war in a way neither side wanted. Yes, by all means, let us observe civilized modes of trying to kill each other. “Prowl is recovering,” he said, which was less than the truth. Let them think Prowl was worse off than he was. Mech needed a rest anyway. 

//Acceptable.// And Ravage melted into the shadows. He left behind a scattering of bugs as a matter of course, but they were so easily found that Red Alert said they classified almost as tokens of affection.


End file.
